


android boy

by jollypuppet



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dystopia, Escape, F/M, Love, M/M, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:41:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jollypuppet/pseuds/jollypuppet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's one of the few people left that can remember how life was before the world went to shit. When Arthur meets Eames, the man who would have been Ariadne's suitor, had she not escaped the country, he starts questioning his own reasons for staying behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	android boy

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, this piece is something of an experiment. I've done alternate universe pieces before, but nothing quite as involved as this, and before I say anything else, I'd just like to mention that this could be really, really weird at first glance. There are some extremely questionable gender roles in this piece, because it's supposed to take place in this totalitarian dystopia where stuff like that is _okay_ , so I'd just like to get it out of the way that I'm not condoning these ideas, but just using them to tell a story.
> 
> Loosely inspired by George Orwell's _1984._

His office never seems any more or less stark than it did the day before, and he's mildly disappointed by even that. He tends to be mildly disappointed by most things.

The shiny black node mounted on the wall beside the window is just as clean and pristine as it normally is, a harsh contrast to the rest of the room, with its whites and light grays, seeming to be covered in a perpetual, thin film of dust. Arthur frowns as he takes off his coat, because that little monster never ceases to make him feel uncomfortable.

Arthur is twenty-six, but his memory is as poor as somebody in their eighties. He has a last name, floating somewhere in the universe -- Barkley or Blake or Bentley, maybe -- but every time he tries to think of what it is, he winces, and his concentration is broken by that node on the wall, and he goes back to what he was doing, because it's really no use, not after so many years.

He's a reporter -- author of the "Our Nation at a Glance" column -- but he never really writes, he just mostly... transcribes, that's what he'd call it. His boss carefully writes out, in clean, black letters, what each day's column should address, and how they should be addressed, and which words to use, and which not to use, under any circumstances, and Arthur knows that Dom feels just as nauseous writing it as he does reading it.

But there's a dark gray bulb in that little node on the wall, constantly trained on Arthur, silent and sickeningly companionable, and it has the perfect angle from which to view the screen of his computer, so there's not much he can do about it.

Arthur swallows thickly, and checks the calendar -- December 11th, who knows what year, but he knows it's been twenty some-odd years since _that year_ \-- and he knows the anniversary is approaching, in less than eight days, now.

So he writes out the headline of his column.

_Happy Remembrance Week to the United Territories of the West_

\--

The United Territories of the West, or just Terrawest, for short, is happy. Never doubt that Terrawest and each and every one of its citizens is _happy_. They're nothing like the Communal Eastern Provinces, sickly and starving under the iron grip of Joseph Cobol.

That's what damn near every history textbook in Terrawest boasts, at least. Arthur knows better, because those textbooks were written after he was born, but his fingers still clack against the keyboard of his computer as he writes about the enthralling, grayscale history of the Territories, echoing loudly in the white room and clearly audible to the little black node on the wall.

He squints his eyes and tries not to grit his teeth -- _Terrawest, victorious and secure in their conformity, remains one of the two largest world powers on the globe_ \-- and can't help but think that there are only two world powers _left_.

Arthur writes the same damn article every damn year. The only thing to look forward to in the day is going home, because home is where _she_ is.

\--

Ariadne will never love him, and he knows that, but it still stings, just the slightest bit.

It's already dark when he arrives home, and he unlocks his apartment -- simple silver key, nothing really that important inside -- to drop off his bags and to sign in with Administrative Security. He means, of course, the node next to his bookshelf, and he scowls.

That's all, though. His life is surprisingly simple, even with eyes on him all the time, and he leaves his apartment again, takes exactly seven paces to the right, and ends up in front of Ariadne's door. He knocks twice, jiggles the doorknob, and knocks once again (something of a soothing ritual to him, and a way to know who's at the door for Ariadne) before waiting patiently in the hallway.

The door swings open faster than usual, and she's all grins when she comes into view -- pale skin and warm eyes and dark hair, and Arthur grins back at her, he can't help it. "Come on in," she says quietly, and pulls him in by his sleeve. The door slams behind them.

"You seem excited." Arthur tells her as she practically skips back into her living room. His eyes scan the room quickly; Ariadne's apartment is obscure in that its architecture is just the slightest bit different from the architecture in all the other apartments.

There's a depression in the wall, perhaps two to three feet deep, next to where the Administrative Security Unit had been placed, and it's clear that something along the lines of a bookshelf or other sort of entertainment center could have fit inside of it, but Ariadne's not the kind of person who _consumes_ , but the kind of person who _creates_.

She skips over to the depression, and Arthur follows her, knitting his brow at the sight of all the drawing paper tacked on the wall in the depression. She puts a finger to her lips playfully, and flattens herself against the side wall of the alcove. She nods toward the opposite wall, suggesting Arthur do the same.

So he does, cause he really can't deny Ariadne anything, in truth.

Once he's out of range from the camera, Ariadne points to the paper in the top left corner of the alcove, and he begins reading her large, loud, impressively cheery handwriting.

_I'm leaving tonight._

His eyes immediately leave the paper and flit back to her, pained and confused, and though she seems just a touch more sad, just a touch more regretful, she keeps smiling. She nods for him to continue, and though he doesn't want to, he does.

 _Robert's taking me away_.

That hurts even worse, of course.

Robert lives in the apartment next to Ariadne, and despite having known Arthur for longer, Ariadne and Robert had hit it off from the moment they had laid eyes on each other. While Arthur had sat in his apartment and stared, bored, into the dark gray clouds of evening, Ariadne and Robert had spent nights together, whispering and smiling and doing a whole league of things Arthur doesn't want to think about.

What he wouldn't give to be the one to take her away from this hellhole.

 _I want to be gone before my birthday. I can become an adult in a free place_.

It's three days until Ariadne's twenty-first birthday. Arthur has a cake and candles waiting in his apartment. His heart clenches painfully, but he doesn't say anything, and instead mouths, "Where?" She nods toward the papers.

_We're going to the British Isles. Neutrality doesn't make you a world power, but there are no security cameras there, no censorship, no microphones. It's better there._

Across the Atlantic Ocean, thousands of miles away from New York (or Province 11, but Arthur is old enough to know the truth.) Arthur knows that, in all probability, he'll never see her again.

He reads the last paper on the wall, and has to blink hard to finish it.

_I want you to stay here. So you can figure out how to leave, too._

Arthur hates her for not knowing how much that hurts. But still, she pulls down the papers slowly, piles them together and folds them, throws them in her fireplace, and asks him to stay the night.

He accepts, because it's Ariadne.

Her bags are packed underneath her bed, and they lay together in the dark for an hour or two, whispering to each other.

He tells her he loves her.

The doorbell rings, and she says she's sorry.

\--

He doesn't go to work the next day, but he gets the feeling that Dom won't mind. He didn't sleep the night before, so he feels like sludge as he gets out of Ariadne's bed, empty of her presence and painful to stay in any longer. He can't fathom writing about Remembrance Week now.

He trudges into the kitchen and makes coffee, the apartment eerily quiet, and the smell of her perfume lingers in the air like a permanent, vicious reminder. Once the coffee's brewed, he throws it down the sink, and he goes to sit in the alcove.

Arthur sits there most of the day, and thinks, because that's all he has the capacity to do, it seems.

\--

The female population of Terrawest is abnormally large in comparison to the male population, and it's been like that for twenty years, ever since the Western hemisphere and the far Eastern hemisphere finally decided to bring the world down in clatter of smoke and blood.

Nobody really knows _why_ all those men disappeared so many years ago -- there are rumors that the heads of state, nervous and paranoid, had been trying to purify the gene pool and extricate as much of the Y chromosome as they could, to lessen the risk of genetic mutations -- but everybody has a feeling that it has something to do with racial superiority, to make the men and women of the Western hemisphere the strongest and most advanced.

Arthur's not sure, in that case, why he wasn't stolen away like the rest of them. He's pretty sure his genes aren't completely clean -- he might be colorblind, but he's not sure, and he might carry some sort of internal deformity, he has no idea -- but he and a handful of other men born before the Great War survived to become functioning, resentful members of society.

But the cleanest males, especially those born _after_ the Great War, they're sent away to the Bureau of Societal and Reproductive Education. They stay there, too, they stay until they're needed.

The women of Terrawest, in turn, can register for certain reproductive liberties before they turn twenty-one. If they can find love before then -- which the government reads as _finding someone to procreate with_ \-- then they won't be shacked up with a random boy from the Bureau, taught ("brainwashed," Arthur thinks) only how to reproduce and rear a child.

They're never taught how to love a spouse, apparently. That's what Arthur's heard, at least.

It's honestly something of a horrible arrangement, and one that Arthur had been dearly hoping that Ariadne would be able to avoid, and it seems as though he's gotten his wish. He'd been hoping she'd avoid it with _him_ , though, which is a bit different, but he figures that she's better off with Robert than with one of those... _robots_ from the Bureau.

By the time it gets dark in Ariadne's apartment, he wonders how far she's gotten. Are they stowaways on a fishing boat, headed for Western Europe? Could they have been captured by authorities, are they being imprisoned or tortured? Could they be _dead?_

 _I'll never forgive you if you don't protect her, Robert._ Arthur thinks as his eyelids start to droop. _Please make her happy. Make her happy, because I never could_.

\--

December 14th rolls around, and Arthur hauls the cake and some of his belongings over to Ariadne's apartment, decides to shack up, and it feels like there's this heavy atmosphere of finality settling around his shoulders.

He blows out all twenty-one candles himself, and he wishes a happy birthday to the open air.

\--

The next few days, he stays in bed and stares at the ceiling, mostly. He gets a few phone calls, none of which he answers -- they're probably all Dom anyway, checking to see whether or not he's dead, but as the hours grow longer and the sun sets again, the calls become more frequent, seemingly more insistent.

He picks up his phone quickly and texts a quick _I'm ok, stop calling_ to Dom before going back to staring at the ceiling. The paint is chipping a bit near the corner of the room, and there's a painting on the wall, something he remembers Ariadne making back in the early days of their friendship.

His phone buzzes next to him. He reads Dom's text slowly, and then reads it again.

_I called you twice this morning, but that's it. What are you talking about?_

The more he reads it, the more he realizes that it wouldn't make sense for Dom to call Ariadne's place and not his. There had only been two calls on his cell, and maybe a dozen more on the landline. He stands up, then, and the landline rings again.

The caller ID reads _BSRE_ , and he doesn't pick it up.

He only stops staring at the phone when the doorbell rings, and even then, he's slow to move.

\--

Arthur doesn't exactly know what he had been expecting. Maybe Ariadne would be in the hallway, cheeks stained with tears and mouth full of a story of Robert abandoning her, asking for Arthur to comfort her, and maybe they'd be happy together.

The man standing in front of him, though, is distinctly _not_ Ariadne.

He's got a broad set of shoulders, and tan skin, which people don't tend to have nowadays, so Arthur finds that a bit odd. He's got sandy blond hair, and he looks confused the minute Arthur opens the door.

He hesitates before speaking, and looks over Arthur's shoulder, like he's searching for somebody else. Arthur studies his face speculatively until their eyes meet again.

"Does an Ariadne live here?" the man asks, and Arthur's jaw nearly drops. His English accent is heavy, rolling off his tongue like honey, but that _can't_ be, because nobody in Terrawest has an accent like that. Not anymore, at least.

Arthur, though, needs to think quickly, because he's not sure if he can trust this... arbitrary visitor. For all he knows, it could be somebody from Administrative Security, and they could very well be here to arrest Arthur for aiding in the escape of a Terrawesterner.

"She's gone missing." It's as good of a lie as any, because people in the Territories tend to go missing inconspicuously all the time. The police doesn't even look into disappearances anymore because they happen so frequently. "I'm looking after her apartment. Can I help you?"  
  
It's almost as if the other man doesn't hear him at all, because he keeps alternating between staring over Arthur's shoulder in confusion and staring at a piece of paper in his hand, also in confusion. Arthur keeps his eyes on the man's face, trying to study his expression, but he eventually lets his curiosity get the better of him, and he glances down.

The stark letterhead of the Bureau of Societal and Reproductive Education is stamped on the top of the paper.

"Are you sure she's not here?" the man asks quietly, staring at the document in his hand, and Arthur doesn't answer. He holds his hand out silently, instead, and the man allows him to gently pry the document away from him.

Arthur reads it carefully -- Ariadne's name and address are printed on the paper, along with information like her birthday and a general description of her appearance, arbitrary things like that -- and he chews his bottom lip.

"You're from the Bureau?" he asks, and the pieces start coming together, though he doesn't want them to, not really. The man looks just as bothered as he does, and he coughs awkwardly.

"She never applied for exclusion." the man explains gently, and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "I'm her suitor." He hesitates, but after a moment's consideration, he holds his hand out awkwardly. "Um. I'm Eames."  
  
Of course Ariadne wouldn't have applied for exclusion, she was planning on leaving the damn country, why would she need to? Arthur doesn't return the handshake at first. He's still holding the letter from the Bureau, and he can feel his hands starting to crinkle the paper a bit -- part of him is glad that she left with Robert, because she loves him, and she's with somebody she cares about, and he only is realizing now just how... disgusting and wrong this entire process is. Was she supposed to accept this person into her home without a second thought and just let him --

"Mate, you okay?" Eames asks, trying to get a better read on Arthur's face. The hand that had been held out for a shake comes up to wave in front of Arthur's eyes. "You look like you just swallowed dynamite or something."  


Arthur takes a deep breath in through his nose, and he immediately stops crinkling the paper in his hands. He deftly folds it and hands it back to the other man, and Eames seems a bit surprised as he takes it.

"Was she just supposed to let you in or something?" It's partly an accusation, but also an honest question. He doesn't know anybody who was sent a suitor from the bureau, so he doesn't really know how the process works. He knows that they're brainwashed, that they're sent to girls' doorsteps when they turn twenty-one in an attempt to keep this idea of racial superiority alive, and Arthur knows that the idea makes him sick now.

The accent, though, that bothers him. He wasn't expecting that.

Eames doesn't take immediate offense -- or, at least, it doesn't seem that way. He almost loosens up at the question; a weird sort of smile slides onto his face, and his tone is suddenly much more casual. "You make it sound like I'm some kind of criminal, love."  
  
"You probably are, by proxy." Arthur shrugs. He crosses his arms, and has an overwhelming urge to slam the door in Eames' face. "I don't know what you were going to do with Ariadne, but the point is, you can't. You can go back to the Bureau and tell them that."  
  
"Not how it works, darling." Eames tells him, and Arthur's getting ticked off, because this is one of the Bureau's _swine_ , one of those young men that's fed lies for their entire life, only to be sent to act like some... sperm donor to a girl that's just unlucky enough to have not found love yet. "Suitors get cut off from Old Mother Bessy when they're set out to find their mark. I have nowhere to go back to."

"Bessy?"  
  
Eames blinks, almost like he's surprised that Arthur didn't understand the reference, but then he sighs. He waves his hand in the air as he explains. "BSRE, Bessy, I dunno, we think they sound kind of the same." Arthur bites his tongue and doesn't make a quip about how they don't sound the same, actually. "Though it makes it a tad complicated that I don't have a mark anymore, I guess."  
  
"You wouldn't have had a mark even if she _was_ here." Arthur growls, and Eames seems a little bit surprised by that. "I wouldn't have let you lay a finger on her, you know." He lowers his voice, because the Administrative Security Unit is still sitting near the back of the room, like a burning eye in Arthur's back. "I don't care what this government thinks it can do, but you can't just send somebody a _husband_ and expect them to be happy. That's not it used to be, and that hasn't changed."  
  
The other man looks like he's about to argue, and Arthur knows that if it comes down to fists, he'll never win in a fight -- Eames is quite a bit larger than him, and besides, suitors from the Bureau are genetically and psychologically trained, _perfected_ , for as long as is physically possible before being sent away. Eames is basically like the Terminator at this point, and Arthur tries not to laugh, because he's surprised he can even remember that movie, especially at a time like this.

But, surprisingly, Eames stops, and he looks at Arthur with wide eyes. This, however, is even _more_ disconcerting, and Arthur stares at him for a minute or two before asking, "What?"  
  
"You said something about it used to be, how old are you?" Eames asks quietly. "Were you alive before the Great War?"

Arthur furrows his brow. "I'm twenty-six. I was five when the Great War happened, why does it matter?"

"You weren't pulled out during the Purge, you mean?"  
  
Arthur narrows his eyes at that. "Do you want something from me, Mr. Eames?"  


Eames grabs his arm suddenly -- his hand is large and warm on Arthur's skin, and it startles the smaller man, to the point this head jerks to look at it -- but Eames' voice is warm and low when he asks:

"Do you remember what it was like before the Great War?"  
  
Arthur looks at him, and he can't _possibly_ be serious, can he? It's a long story, one that's _frowned upon_ , and if the node on the wall were to catch any of their conversation, they could be arrested for this kind of talk.  
  
But still, that accent is bothering him. It's _really_ bothering him.

"Do you want to come in?" Arthur asks tentatively, and Eames smiles at him, almost in apology. He holds up his wrist, and Arthur has to refrain from swearing -- there's a security chip in his wrist, one that's undoubtedly wired to register in the Unit in Ariadne's apartment.

"I have no choice." he says quietly. "Looks like you're stuck with me, pet."  


\--

They sit in the alcove, trying to press themselves as close to the back wall as they can to stay out of the eye of the black monster jutting out from the wall, and Arthur tries to communicate with Eames the way Ariadne communicated with him the night she left.

He holds the pad of paper up every few minutes as he writes down what he knows, and Eames watches with rapt attention.

 _I was five when the war broke out. The United States were feeling pressured by potential nuclear powers in the Eastern hemisphere, and the paranoia ended up mounting until the Great War happened and everything collapsed._ _Any enemy that could have risen up against the West did. The only thing I remember is the color of the sky changing in the middle of the day, and not knowing why._

Eames reads the pad of paper, and his brow furrows, almost like he's trying to process this information for himself, like he feels like this should be _his_ experience. He hands the pad of paper back to Arthur to allow him to continue.

 _It's hard to pick out some of the pieces, but so little has happened to me since then that I can remember a surprising amount of things. It was better, back then, much better. Love wasn't an arbitrary thing you could just send to someone's doorstep_.

Eames takes the pad of paper from him and reads it slowly. Arthur watches his eyes scan over the words once, twice, thrice, and he starts getting nervous, because he's not sure what Eames finds so interesting about it. He expects to get the pad back, but instead, Eames holds out his hand for the pen, and Arthur hands it over.

A few minutes later, Eames holds it up -- his handwriting isn't nearly as illegible as Arthur was imagining it'd be, but it's curly and dark and rather refined. It's nice to look at.

_I don't remember anything._

Arthur's surprised by how much that first sentence hurts him.

 _I've been at the Bureau for 21 years, and they tell me I'm 28, but I sometimes wonder if I'm older, or younger, much younger. The last thing I can think of before the classrooms and the isolated dorms is a lot of tall buildings, lit up from the inside. I remember all the light disappearing_.

Arthur looks him straight in the eye then, and he doesn't even have the heart to glare at him or look confused or furrow his brow, because Arthur has nightmares, sometimes, of the power going out for the last time before the Great War. Eames smiles at him, as if to say that it's alright, and Arthur nods.

They sit in the alcove together for a while after that, because Arthur's gotten tired of passing the notepad back and forth, and they do their best to communicate simply. The things they can say, they say, and other things, they mouth, and sometimes Eames makes grand gestures, and Arthur smiles a little bit for the first time in a few days.

It gets dark, soon enough, and Arthur stands up, his legs stiff from sitting so long, and Eames stands in turn, suddenly looking very out of place.

"Suitors are supposed to, uh," Eames starts, wringing his hands, "take their marks to bed, you know. When they first meet them, that is." Arthur stares at him, and he puts up his hands to try to reassure him, almost. "Not that I'm going to take you to bed, love, I wouldn't think of it." He pauses again, and grimaces. "Not that you're not devilishly handsome, trust me, you are, but this just isn't --"  
  
Arthur holds his hand up to try and stop him. "I get it, Eames." He walks out of the little alcove, and he feels daring, almost, like the blood in his veins is suddenly hot and bubbling up under his skin, so he finds the small gray camera within the depths of the black plastic on the little node, and he stares right into it, _glares_ at it. Without taking his eyes off of it, he gestures towards the bedroom.

"You can take Ari --" he stops, and clears his throat. "My bed. You can sleep in my bed. I'll take the couch and we'll sort things out tomorrow."  
  
Eames waits, though, and watches Arthur as he defiantly stares at the little camera, and Arthur wonders if he's nervous, or if he's intrigued. Either way, Eames ends up skirting around him, perhaps a little closer than is really necessary, and closes the door to the bedroom behind him.

Arthur drags out a spare blanket from behind the sofa and it keeps him warm, and he's sure that if anybody's monitoring his Unit, they're watching his eyes glow into the darkness, and he hopes it strikes fear into the heart of somebody.

\--

He has to go back to work eventually, and when he shows up, Dom looks at him like he knows something. He's not quite as meticulous in returning to his office as normal, and maybe he walks a bit faster, everything is the same. The desk is the same, the node is the same, the thin film of dust is...

Well, at least that's gone.

Arthur sits down at his computer, and it's already on when he gets there. There's a document open on the screen, and in impossibly small, almost illegible print, almost too small for Arthur to read and clearly too small for the little black node behind him, a note reads:

_I left some books under your files. I thought you might find them interesting. Read them at your discretion. - D_

He glances over to the small plastic tray that he holds all his files in, and he gingerly lifts them with his finger. Underneath are three thin volumes, each wrapped meticulously with brown paper like crude book covers. Arthur pulls out the first and flips open to the title page.

_A Concise History of the Great War and the Repercussions Thereof_

The second is entitled _World Culture_ , published in the early 2000s, and the third is _A Comprehensive Thesis On the Nature and Records of the Bureau of Societal and Reproductive Education_.

He leaves that one on his desk and smiles, and reminds himself to bring Dom coffee later. He opens his column and continues to work on it, occasionally reading the small print of the thesis, as if checking for information, and he doesn't notice how late it's gotten until he has to turn the lights on to see.

He slips the thin book into his briefcase before leaving that night, and he remembers to go to Ariadne's door instead of his own.

\--

They keep the lights off in the bedroom as they read the small book, the little black node on the wall opposite the bed ever present in Arthur's mind. Eames reads along with Arthur, occasionally pointing things out that he already knows, or knows more about than the book, and they get through all the current, basic stuff before getting to the history.

"I know about all of this." Eames says quietly, pointing to a passage about the founder of the Bureau, and about its early years. They scan a bit around the general area to try to find anything worth mentioning, and they end up on a paragraph near the end of a chapter that briefly mentions the Great War.

 _The Bureau, in an effort to purify the gene pool of the United Territories, was established soon after the war's end. Its main goal is genetic perfection, focusing on both the X and Y chromosomes, and has led the Territories to genetic superiority through severe exclusion and, under extreme circumstances, the inclusion of more suitable specimen_.

"What the hell does that mean?" Eames mumbles, and Arthur can't help but scoff as they read more about the Bureau's supposed beginnings. They like to boast evolutionary superiority, but everybody who's old enough to understand anything about evolution would know that the Terrawesterners are in a state of equilibrium that would make either Hardy or Weinberg trip over their own feet.

"Nothing, most likely." Arthur answers him, and they skip past the part about the Purge, because it's just a bit too disturbing. Arthur knows what they mean by "exclusion," and he's not entirely happy about it.

Eames rubs his eyes and sighs through his nose, and Arthur closes the book.

"I'll let you get to sleep." he says quietly, and he moves to leave the bedroom. "We can read more of this in the morning, I guess. I'll talk to Dom about getting more books the next time I see him."  


Eames nods, and he gestures to the unoccupied side of the bed. "Listen, love, I've been here for two weeks now, you don't have to act the gracious host. Take the bed." Arthur squints at him, and he cracks his back where he's sitting.

Arthur shrugs, but only on one side. "I don't mind the couch." he insists.

"I don't care if you don't mind the couch, darling." Eames laughs, but it's a tired sort of laugh, one that's wracked with confusion and questions. "I get that you want to make a guest comfortable and everything, but this is technically my home, even though I didn't end up coming here for the reasons I'd meant to. If you're so worried about it, at least take that side."  
  
Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but then shuts it again, and he glances at the right side of the bed. The couch is getting less and less comfortable with each night he sleeps on it, and it does look rather tempting.

"You're still not bedding me." Arthur says, and Eames just laughs. They both sleep soundly that night.

\--

They sit in the alcove some mornings, passing the notepad back and forth. The little book on the Bureau always lays in between them, closed and innocent in the gray sunlight streaming in through the windows.

 _I haven't been entirely truthful with you about Ariadne._ Arthur's note is smooth and powerful, the handwriting of a patient, heartbroken man. _She didn't just up and disappear. She left the country a few days before you showed up. I was, and currently am, covering for her._

When Eames reads this, he laughs a little bit, and it doesn't take him long to come up with a message to give back to Arthur.

 _You nearly killed me when you realised I'd been sent for her from the Bureau. I get the feeling you wouldn't have just let her leave on her own like that_.

Arthur gets the notepad back, and he frowns when he reads it. Eames seems cheery for a moment or two, but as he gets a better look at Arthur's expression, his smile fades a bit.

"I didn't." he says quietly, and screw Administrative Security, he really can't give a damn about the stupid camera on the wall anymore. Eames watches him carefully, but he doesn't look up from the notepad, or Eames' words. He runs his hands carefully over the elegant letters, and he gets just the smallest bit of joy from that.

"Some other bloke, huh?" Eames asks quietly, and it's not joking or accusatory or anything. It's not even a question, really, it's just a statement, like he somehow understands how Arthur feels, even though that's not conceivably possible. Eames has been preened all his life for one single, final romantic success, but Arthur's life, unfortunately, is not like that. Not at all.

He hesitates, but after contemplating, he opens his mouth. "I told her I loved her."  


Eames nods, and the alcove's not too wide, so his legs are tangled up with Arthur's -- long and strong and warm, and he's the most _alive_ thing Arthur's experienced in a while, ever since Ariadne's left, at least. "Yeah?" It's so quiet, it's damn near a whisper.

Arthur continues.

"She said she was sorry."  
  
\--

A month later, they've looked no further into the history of the Bureau, and to be honest, neither Arthur nor Eames mind that much. They've become used to each other's company, used to having another presence around to talk to and be with.

It rains, which is odd. Arthur knows that rain isn't really a rare thing, because no matter how many governments rise and fall, the weather's always going to be the same, but it feels like it's been so long since he's seen rain. He and Eames sit together in the darkness, tucked into the alcove and enjoying the sound of the rain against the window panes.

"They only teach you two things at the Bureau." Eames says, and his voice sounds mildly amused, almost in a self-deprecating way. His voice is rich and wonderful, and Arthur doesn't mind when it slices through the silent atmosphere. "You learn simple things, like math and how to read, but that's never what they really want you take away from class, you know? You learn two things at the Bureau: you learn how to procreate, and you learn how to rear and love a child. That's it."  
  
Arthur looks at him, his eyes lidded and tired. He knows that Administrative Security can hear them, but he wonders just how much they care. He's wondered that for a while, but he hears the camera buzz beneath the black plastic of the little node, and he gets the feeling that something is going to happen in the coming days.

 "They never teach you about being a good spouse or anything?" he asks. It's not a judgmental question, but an honestly curious one, and Eames shrugs. Arthur pauses before continuing. "If you _had_ been Ariadne's husband, how would you have treated her? What do they tell you about treating your mark?"  
  
Eames sighs, and he rubs at his forehead as if he suddenly has a headache. "They teach you to treat the mark like an opportunity to procreate. I never agreed with it, to be honest with you, but a lot of the younger lads, they took to it quicker than you would imagine. It's scary, dear. They program paternal love so deeply into your mind that you completely forget what romantic love even _is_."

The other man watches him carefully, like he's searching for some answer deep within him, and Arthur wonders if the question really is how Eames would have treated Ariadne. Eames' legs are still warm and welcome against his own, but the rest of him feels cold.

"I don't know what I would have done, Arthur." Eames says honestly. "I don't know how I would have treated her, because I don't _know_ her. Maybe I would have loved her with everything I had, maybe I would have hated the very blood in her veins. Point is, I never had the chance, and I never will." He smiles a bit. "I guess fate just didn't think my genes were good enough for racial superiority."  
  
"I wouldn't say that." Arthur replies quickly, quietly, and though Eames looks surprised, and Arthur knows that he should be, too, he's not. Not really, at least.

The government, he thinks, doesn't give a shit whether or not you die out. They keep everything clean, and as long as you're not dirty and continuing your line of life, they don't care. As long as you're not threatening them, unbalancing their equilibrium, then you might as well be bleeding on the floor, hanging yourself in the bathroom, at least keeping yourself _quiet_.

"I'm sorry." Arthur says, and he pushes himself off the side wall of the alcove, crosses the distance between himself and the blond in front of him, broad shouldered and warm, the suitor he was never supposed to meet. He kisses Eames firmly, like he has something to prove, and he's met with no resistance.

The Bureau, clearly, knows nothing, because with all their boasting of paternal love, with all their erasure of romantic love, Eames kisses back with a fervor that would impress any soft-hearted girl, any man with a spirit of rebellion. He wraps an arm around Arthur's back, pulls him closer, and Arthur wonders if there's any love left there for him.

\--

Eames has sex, frankly, like he's been training for it his entire life.

He laughs, and his voice is breathy against Arthur's bare neck, and he rolls his hips up. Arthur is practically melted against him, warm and happy and _shaking_ , and he runs his hands through Eames' hair.

"It's not like they give us classes on lovemaking, darling." he jokes, and Arthur thins his lips because, honestly, Eames could have fooled him. "That's just preposterous."

He kisses Arthur again, gently, and in the darkness of Ariadne's bedroom -- or Arthur's, or Eames', or theirs, he's not so sure anymore -- the black node on the wall is the last thing either of them are thinking about.

"We're just rather good," he says slowly, running his hands down Arthur's sides, taking in the site of him, flushed and panting, with reverence, "at treating bodies like the most precious things on the planet."

He jerks his hips again, and Arthur cries out, and he believes him.

\--

They read together, late into the night, Arthur tucked against Eames' chest, books that Dom has wrapped and slipped into Arthur's file tray discreetly laying between them.

"I can't give you a child, you know." Arthur says one night. "I mean, you've completely defied expectations on the whole relationship front, but as far as loving and rearing a child?"  
  
Eames shrugs. "I told you, love, maybe my genes just aren't meant to move on. You know?" He knows Arthur's probably going to object, so he just laughs and drops a kiss into his hair. He closes his eyes and breathes for a moment. "But you. Do you think you would have been happier with Ariadne? If she'd brought you to the British Isles instead of that Robert tosser?"  
  
Arthur grins, and he threads his fingers together with Eames'. "Robert wasn't a tosser, he was a good guy. If I wanted Ariadne to be with anybody, it'd be with him."

"Besides you."

Arthur stops then. He looks up at Eames, and he doesn't look upset, or even sad. He looks as if he just said something that's... well, truth. That bothers Arthur, because he's not sure if Eames is right or not.

Eames looks at him, and kisses him gently. "Love, you don't have to pretend like you wouldn't have given the world to be with her." He looks at Arthur with a certain degree of openness, like he wants Arthur to admit it, too, but he just... can't bring himself to.

Partly because it's just not entirely true anymore. It might still be true, in the slightest sense, but not completely, not anymore. Arthur's not the kind of person to pine after what he can't have, not for long.

"Somehow," he says quietly, "the girl I loved was in love with another man, and was sent a completely different man with whom she was supposed to fall in love. Seems kind of complicated, don't you think?"  
  
Eames doesn't answer, but he laughs quietly, and Arthur smiles. He brings a hand up and touches Eames' face gingerly, and the other man's eyes are warm when he looks down.

"What?" he continues. "I loved her, and she was _supposed_ to love you?" He smiles, and Eames smiles back at him, because honestly, it's rather preposterous, that concept. The more Arthur thinks about the Bureau, the more conflicted he becomes about it -- he's disgusted, but also happy, because Eames is, to be frank, pretty wonderful.

Then again, he wonders if he fell into a trap that Ariadne just happened to narrowly avoid.

Eames holds him tighter. "Any way you look at it, I guess we were just on opposite sides of the same spectrum."  
  
"That's what I'm beginning to think." Arthur says quietly, and he turns his head into the crook of Eames' neck. He always smells nice, like wood and sand and something so indistinguishably _free_ , something that Arthur longs to smell again. "I'll always love Ariadne, I think, but maybe she was, in part, a doorway to you."

He looks up then, because Eames seems to have stilled at the thought, and he looks him straight in the eye, and tries to say as seriously as possible, "I love you, and please don't tell me you're sorry."  
  
Eames blinks, and there's a light of something in his eyes -- deep and bright and _afraid_ , and Arthur wonders if that had been there when all the light in the world had disappeared -- but he smiles in the end. "Suitors don't apologize, darling." he says quietly, and kisses Arthur again. "We're born to be lovers, after all."  
  
That's the only thing that comforts Arthur through the night, because the camera whirs into the quiet, oddly loud lately.

\--

The last book that Dom gives him has the truth.

_It's not often documented, but soon after the Purge, the Bureau realized that the new empire would require a far larger pool of men for the remaining women to procreate with, to maintain genetic variation. Covertly, some of the neutral nations still standing in Western Europe were contacted, and the Bureau was sent, as payment for respecting their neutrality, near 50,000 genetically superior men to add to the gene pool. Each of these young men, from places like Spain, France, the British Isles, and a select few of the Nordic countries, were immediately enrolled in the Bureau's educational services._

They both read it, over and over, and the room's silent as they do, because it's just...

Arthur looks away after maybe his fifth or sixth time scanning over the words, because he feels like this is something _Eames_ should see, maybe not him, but Eames only seems to look closer, like he can't believe what he's reading.

"So," his voice is rough when he speaks, "what? They... they just _kidnapped_ people, like that?" He looks up at Arthur, and he looks simultaneously angry and confused. "They didn't want the shit getting beat out of them, so they... what, they sent over _sex slaves?_ "  
  
Arthur looks back at the pages of the book. "Maybe that's not what they thought you'd be used for. Maybe they thought you'd be soldiers or something." Still, he reads the words again and again, and that seems less and less likely.

Eames puts his hand on Arthur's shoulder. "I don't _care_ , Arthur, that's where I'm _from_." He looks flabbergasted, like he's trying to make a decision, but is trying to weigh too many options at once. "I mean, hell, they repressed every single memory I have of England, but I still have this damned accent, don't I?" He looks Arthur in the eye then, like he's had some insane idea, and he practically breathes, "Let's go find Ariadne and Robert.

Arthur's eyes flit over the camera on the wall, and he can hear it click, like it's moving to get a better view. He gives Eames a stern look to remind him to be quiet, and says, as quietly as he can manage, "We can't just _leave_."  
  
"Who _says?!_ " Eames insists, and he looks desperate now. "Darling, I never knew why I was _there_ in that stupid, twisted little school. I can't just... sit here when I know there's so much ahead of me!" He grabs Arthur's hands. "Please tell me you'll come with me, love, _please_. We'll do just what she did, we'll leave in the middle of the night and we'll be long gone before they catch wind of us, okay?"  
  
Arthur watches him with trepidation, because Eames is _right_ , he _has_ had thoughts about leaving, especially ever since Ariadne disappeared. But now, he has someone to bring with him -- Ariadne escaped with Robert, and now Arthur can escape with Eames, and he'll never have to spend another cold winter, another harsh summer, in that stupid little cubicle, writing about the superiority of Terrawest and it's people, he'll never have to write about Remembrance Week or the Great War, he'll be --

Eames hugs him, then, and he smells like freedom.

They sit together in silence until it gets dark, and they can feel the little camera staring at them through the night. At one point, wordlessly, Arthur pulls out his cell phone, and he sends one single text to Dom.

 _I'm leaving_.

Not two minutes later, he gets a response.

 _Good luck_.

Eames smiles at him, and he can't help but smile back, because this is something _different_. This is... this is something completely and entirely _new_. He kisses Eames in the quiet and in the dark, and they kiss until the phone rings.

The caller ID reads _BSRE_.

They get up, and they disappear, just like Ariadne and Robert had before them.


End file.
